


In Which Anne Falls In Love With Constance By Proxy

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, F/M, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anne and d'Artagnan hold an impromptu hair-braiding and gossip sesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Anne Falls In Love With Constance By Proxy

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and re-posted from tumblr. If you'd like to freak out about the new season with me, [come say hi](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com)!

The Musketeer d’Artagnan hails her as she’s leaving the grand hall after the court is let out. 

She longs for her couch, and is glad for once that her presence in court is not usually expected while she is in such delicate condition. Indeed, any lingering instead of hurrying to cloister herself in her chambers will draw eyes and whispers. Still, she pauses.

D’Artagnan bows; and when Anne gestures for him to speak, peers at her with earnest brown eyes. “I’m sorry to hear of your handmaiden’s departure,” he says.

Anne cocks her head. Her reason for attending court today was to wish Mademoiselle Larque adieu and best wishes on her advantageous marriage. It seems that her departure is of interest to d’Artagnan as well. “That is kind of you,” she says, inviting further explanation. 

"If you wish, I know of a woman who might replace her." Seeing her open expression, he brightens and stumbles on: "Madame Bonacieux, of Rue Marchand. She would be a shining addition to your entourage." 

She notes the street name: one in the merchant district. “Does Madame Bonacieux have any experience at court?” 

"No, Your Majesty. But she has many courtly qualities." 

Anne’s feet are killing her. Her long-awaited pregnancy has come with unforetold aches and pains. By all means she should dismiss this out of hand. But she has always had a fondness for the Musketeers, and she has heard Captain Treville’s endorsement of this young recruit. 

"Walk with me, d’Artagnan," she says. He makes an aborted motion, a glance back at his fellow Musketeers. "I’m sure your captain can spare you for a few moments." 

"Of course, Your Majesty." He bows again and falls into step behind her. 

She directs them to her suite, but she settles in the outer parlor. This is still a public forum, for now: her act of kind, soft-spoken queen is never dropped in front of other people, and she would rather keep that mask out of her private rooms. 

She gestures for d’Artagnan to take a seat, but he hovers until she sits down. He knows his manners, poor young soul. 

"You’ll forgive me, d’Artagnan," she says, using his name to forge a connection. And now, a piece of casually dropped intimacy: "I’m afraid I find the need to rest after my excursions each day." She pauses, watching the mixed embarrassment and confusion on his face. "Even queens need rest while indisposed," she adds, to see how he’ll take a jest of such an intimate, _female_ nature.

Now humor swirls onto his face, tugging at his lips even while his eyes remain half-closed and shy; a watercolor of emotion. There’s no artifice in him, even when he blanks his face and bows in response.  Anne is satisfied: his suggestion is an honest one, not another clumsy attempt from desperate courtiers to win standing with the queen, who seems an easier target than her husband. 

She gestures to one of her ladies-in-waiting, who fetches one of Anne’s long-handled ivory hairbrushes. D’Artagnan eyes it warily. Anne gestures with it toward his head. ”Will you permit me to amuse myself while you tell me of this young woman?” 

D’Artagnan barely stops himself from gaping. “You want to brush my hair? Your Majesty,” he tacks on hastily. 

"One must find ways to entertain oneself during the long stretch of confinement. I’ve found that noblemen are much improved after a thorough brushing." 

"I’m not a noble, Your Majesty." But d’Artagnan rises and moves to sit on the floor in front of her. She wonders how often he’s been browbeaten into sitting still while younger sisters or cousins have arranged his shoulder-length locks just so. Anne is starting to like this young man. She thinks that if Madame Bonacieux is anything like him, then she would be a precious addition to her court indeed. 

She puts one hand on the curve of his skull to keep him still, and with the other begins to draw the brush through his hair. ”You say that Madame Bonacieux would do well at court. Why do you say so?” 

"She’s not mine," d’Artagnan says hastily. His head tilts back as Anne pulls at a knot. "She’s wonderful. She’s — she’s amazing. You’d never believe the things she puts up with, and she’s always looking out for other people. She helped us a few—" He cuts himself off, piquing Anne’s interest. 

"How does she help you?" 

"Well," d’Artagnan clears his throat. "She got us into a few places we might not’ve gotten in otherwise. Nothing dangerous," he hastens to assure her. "But she’s brilliant at thinking on her feet." 

Anne keeps her strokes even. “She helps all the Musketeers?” she murmurs. 

"Well, just the four of us — Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and myself." 

Anne ignores the shiver that threatens to overtake her at the mention of Aramis. But the inclusion of his name in Constance’s list of associates is intriguing. Porthos, as well. She knows of him; how could she not, what with the hubbub surrounding the king’s acceptance of the dark-skinned man into the Musketeers? If Madame Bonacieux is associates, even friends, with these men, then she might not be shocked by the personal life of a Spanish queen. 

Unlike the women who are sitting in the corner, just within Anne’s peripheral sight, nudging each other and waiting to spread gossip about the queen’s strange habit of brushing men’s hair. Anne has already identified two of them as spies for the English king. Another was under Richelieu’s employ, though Anne doesn’t know how her allegiances – or purse – have changed since the Cardinal’s death.

The rhythm of the brush is lulling d’Artagnan. “She has the most beautiful eyes,” he says sleepily. “Like the sea on a stormy day. And when she gets mad she has a little wrinkle on her forehead. You can tell when she’s only pretending because she’ll pout and the wrinkle won’t be there. And then she’ll go along with your plan anyway.” 

Anne keeps her breathing slow and her brushing even. She doesn’t want to break this spell. 

“And she’ll always tell you what she thinks of you, and she’s always right. She’s sharp, but she’s kind about it too. She never gossips or anything. She’s better than any fawning courtier.” 

He catches himself a moment later, and straightens, all sleepiness gone from his voice. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to—” 

Anne deflects and redirects with ease. "Has Madame Bonacieux expressed interest in coming to court?" 

"No, Your Majesty." He hesitates. "She doesn’t know I’ve suggested this." 

"Would she not find it unsatisfying to leave her home so suddenly? What of her present arrangement?" 

"Her husband—" D’Artagnan’s voice almost cracks, and he pauses; and oh, doesn’t Anne know the hundreds of words and kisses and stolen moments hiding behind that pause? "She works with her husband. As a merchant. But she’s not busy enough, and I know she’s unhappy. She just won’t—" 

His hand is clenched on his knee. Anne keeps her strokes smooth, betraying no sign of distress. Her mood influences d’Artagnan, as is often the case with men; and he flattens his fist and evens his voice. “She would thrive at court, Your Majesty. I know she would.” 

Anne reaches the end of the count in her head — _98 brushes, 99, 100_ — and lays down the hairbrush. D’Artagnan shifts and tosses his hair minutely, trying not to upset her work.

His back is turned, so Anne smiles a genuine smile. She likes this young Musketeer, and she likes the sound of his lover. Her stormy eyes and her sharp, honest tongue. Anne will put her people on the trail of this Madame Bonacieux, and see what they find. 

"Thank you, d’Artagnan," she says. "It was a kind suggestion. You can be sure I’ll consider it." 

He rises, surprisingly graceful, and turns to her so he may bow properly. “Thank you for granting me an audience, Your Majesty. You’ve shown me more attention than I deserve.” 

Anne risks smiling that same genuine smile again. She nods to dismiss him. 

When he is gone, she gestures for her ladies to assist her to her bed in her private rooms. There she relaxes gratefully onto the plump pillows. The baby will come soon; she will have to employ another woman to be nursemaid. Perhaps, if she chooses an ancient noble family, no one will protest unduly when she picks a merchant’s wife as her private handmaiden. No, better to couch it in terms the court will find agreeable… A personal royal messenger, perhaps…

She drifts off to sleep to the sound of her ladies rustling and gossiping in the corner, wondering what it would be like to have a lover with eyes like the sea. 


End file.
